Airstrike
by scintilla-says
Summary: Five years and thousands of miles from home, Silas has nothing but an unresponsive Power Coin and his dead brother's suicidal mission. It was never meant to be him, and yet.


He lands two-feet deep in reedy water, face-down and sloughed with bloodied clay, fifty-three miles from the nearest city.

The fall breaks his radius bone in two clean pieces, thick white splitting skin until he's wanting to scream into the mud, arm bent badly under his weight. He bites his lip with his teeth until the initial jolt has more-or-less nulled, until blood spills freely into his mouth and then he has to _move_. Damage control. _"You got thirty seconds to assess your situation, fix what needs to be fixed and get the hell on your feet," _his brother's voice sounding in his head and he scrambles to his knees, arm clutched as tightly to his chest as he can possibly manage.

His bow is snapped. It's spread to his side, half embanked and the other half practically floating on the still water, a break as clean as his arm. The arrows are shredded, most of them beyond repair. He salvages what he can and splints his arm, using the threadbare tee-shirt he'd taken from god-even-knows-where-now to wrap it as meticulously as he can, one-handed and made clumsy with panic.

It's nightfall. He stumbles backwards into the sludge, eyes casting through the skies, the spray of burgeoning stars. The moon swims in the sky above him, the only light-source for miles and he stares up at it, caught off-guard because. Because he hadn't known the moon would be here. Hadn't even thought –

"Lune," he whispers and the word stutters in his throat, comes out strangled and quiet. His hand lifts faintly, silvery beams filtered through the gaps of his fingers. There's something thick in his chest, but there isn't _time _and so he pulls his hand back down and turns his attention back to the stars instead. The Southern Cross is splayed before him, a crossroad of twinkling lights.

The Southern Hemisphere. He's in the Southern Hemisphere.

He seeks out the Octant and finds nothing, no brightly-lit answer to his questions. The night is thick and humid, and the south pole star is a lost cause.

There's no-one behind him, not a limb or a hair or a _pistol _and he lets that sink for a moment, almost unwilling to believe it. He's been followed for days now. His heart doesn't want to leave his throat. There's nothing but naked land as far as his eye can see, fields upon fields of dirt and grass.

_Julian_, he thinks automatically, because Julian would have worked it out by now. Julian wouldn't have fallen asleep. Julian was Red, all Red, and it should have been him.

It was always meant to be him.

He swears tightly, shoving up onto his feet and squinting furiously at the Cross. Julian's dead. Julian is always going to be dead.

He finds the Crucis, snares them both and paints a line leading all the way home.

* * *

He walks for twelve miles before his body starts to burn. He thinks it's the blood loss – it might be the blood loss – combined with exhaustion and _exhaustion_. There are cows everywhere, dotted through the fields around him, earthly brown and heavy, bones padded thickly with meat. He thinks about what it would take to kill one, considers a swift arrow to the throat. It would be quick, merciful; his stomach dives eagerly, wooed at once, but he would have to build a fire and he can't take the risk.

The moon distracts him constantly, keeps him staring at the skies instead of his feet. He traces the circumference with his finger, tastes the word in his mouth. There's a _moon_, and it's all he can seem to focus on.

He reaches another creek hours upon hours after leaving the first, knees buckling at the thought of fresh water. He can't remember the last time he drank anything. He can't remember the last time anything and for the faintest of seconds wishes he could take the entire creek back to his time, back to his world. Then he remembers he's _never going back _and stops thinking altogether.

The water is warm and tasting faintly of soil, delicious in every way and he considers the very real possibility that the two creeks are one in the same. He knows he has to rest, knows that he can't actually continue like is. His body is on fire. Ten minutes, he thinks dimly.

Ten minutes, and then he'll never stop again.

He remains huddled by the creek where he has watch over everything and no-one can sneak up on him. He keeps what's left of his arrows close to him, tucked neatly under his mottled legs.

He's desperately tired. His arm pounds, his chest a scratched-out hollow. He doesn't think of what he's left behind. He thinks of nothing but the task before him, impossible and exhaustive. He waits and he waits, and eventually the night takes over.

* * *

"_Are you having fun? Do you think this is fun, Silas?"_

_Her breath is crushingly hot, electricity racing his veins. _

_Do you think this is fun_

_Do you think – _

His eyes snap open as the knife is driven into his shoulder, phantom pain whipping his hand from its hold on the mattress beneath him. The movement jerks his arm and he swallows back a wince _(crying will only make it worse, do you want it to be worse, wouldn't that be fun?)_, clashing teeth and bones at once.

He's on his back and the sky is no longer above him. It's a pastel wasteland, cracked paint and a tepid light that sends his heart jolting into his throat.

"Ah, 'bout time," a guttural voice sounds above him and he jerks up at once, thrown back by the immediate pain that ricochets through his body. He doesn't make a sound, all his voice trapped between his teeth, and the woman tuts loudly.

"Careful there, kid. You got a hell of a fever." Something cold and wet – a dishcloth – is pressed against his forehead. His eyes unblur as he swallows, watching her move into his line of sight. He's tense, coiled tightly into the mattress. His heart is pounding wildly, panicked. She's not familiar to him.

He swears in angry, violent French as his free hand grasps hers, shoving it away from him. The dishcloth hits the floor with an echoing squelch and the woman stares at him in bewilderment for the space of a few seconds, before shaking her head.

"Sorry, kid. I don't know nothing other than English. Daddy was my teacher, y'see. We were homeschooled – well, everyone 'round these parts is. Bit far from the city, ain't it." She smiles widely, showing all her teeth and not an once of malice. Silas doesn't uncoil.

Doesn't even know how to anymore.

After a moment the woman sighs, sitting herself down on the stool beside the makeshift bed. Her hair is pinned back in a bun, loose tendrils shifting with the faint breeze. Her face is blotched with sunburn, eyes crinkled at the corners. Silas thinks she might be in her fifties, but that means nothing to him. No age is to be trusted.

"My name's Marge," she offers. "I found you in my paddock this mornin'. Sprawled out like a sleeping babe, you were. Thought you were dead, nearly gave me a bloody heart-attack."

She nods at his broken arm and he eyes the crisp white bandage warily. It's neat, tidy, and he stamps down the automatic flush of gratitude.

"There's a doctor 'bout thirty miles in. Was waitin' for you to rest up so I can take you in. You thirsty?"

His free hand gravitates towards his face while she mimes drinking, fingertips running over his own skin, assessing for damage. There are little strips of plaster over each cut, forehead bumpy with them, and he looks directly at her.

"Merci," he says quietly, unwillingly. The words feel foreign on his tongue. He can't remember the last person he thanked.

Her eyes crinkle in time with her mouth, a clear smile and pours him a glass of water that he consumes in two single swallows. "Dunno where you coulda come from, kid. There's nothin' 'round for kilometres. You got any family close by, hun?"

Famille, he thinks and gets a brief flash of gold, of sunburned skin and endless freckles. "No," he says finally, carefully. The cageyness in his skin is ebbing slowly, urge to cut and runrun_run _being replaced with sheer exhaustion. "Ils sont morts."

The blinds are drawn, but flashes of light scour the room every few minutes and he knows it's daylight. He doesn't want to think about how much time he's lost.

She clicks her tongue and hands him something small and white, some kind of round pill and he shakes his head fiercely, baring his teeth in a feral snarl built out of habit before he's remembered where he is, _when _he is and that she's probably only trying to help.

"For your fever." She insists, ignoring his aggression altogether. The pill floats in the meaty palm of her hand. It's stamped with an N. Silas has no idea what that means, but he's not putting it in his body. When this becomes apparent she clicks her tongue once more and pockets it, standing from the stool. The room is bare save for the bed and an empty wardrobe across the floor. Everything is coated in dust and Silas thinks it hasn't been used in months.

He hesitates and asks, "Are you alone?" because he doesn't quite know what he'd do with more people. He anticipates her nod before she's even done it and feels all the more better for it. He can't handle anyone else. He's never been good with strangers.

"Husband died years ago." Her smile seems forced, tired. "We never had kids. Just me now."

She says he ought to sleep then, taking her pills and a broad-rimmed hat tucked under her arm. She leaves him the water and tells him to rest in kindly tones that he doesn't know how to deal with. She mentions a hospital tomorrow, driving to a city. He doesn't know what any of it means and, more importantly, has no plans to there tomorrow. He waits until she has shut the door behind her (lockable, he ascertains, reassured somehow) before letting his body relax.

Despite the consistent anxiety gnawing at his very insides, there is a strange comfort in this bed, the soft mattress and the secluded nature of the room. In the quiet, always in the quiet.

He's five years and thousands of miles from home. There is no one tracking him. No one that knows that he is here. Zordon made sure of that.

Exhaustion bites at him, complaining loudly in his bones and, five years and thousands of miles away, he finally lets himself fall asleep.

* * *

Silas wakes to the world being torn apart around him. There's a crack from overhead and it ricochets through his body, snapping him upright with his eyes popped wide.

Silence.

He slips out form the under the duvet, bare-footed and making no sound as he crosses the small distance to the door. He presses his ear against it, waiting for the thick oak to rumble and vibrate under his skin, but it does nothing of the sort. The house is entirely silent again. It occurs to him that he could be dreaming all of this. It wouldn't be the first time.

He slips to the window and pulls the curtain back a fraction, peering out into the sky. It's nightfall again, the inky black sky mottled with stars and he knows then that he is not dreaming after all. There are no moons in his dreams.

There's another crack, whip-like and echoing. His aching arm is held to his chest, heart rearing unexpectedly in his throat. Fear. An unmistakable cold stab of terror that he should be ashamed of, but can't quite dedicate the energy. He's too busy scrambling for solution, for a rescue. He knows that sound. He's well aware that it only leads to destruction and for a moment he's hot with anger at himself. How could he actually believe no one had followed him?

Then, without a second to spare, he opens the bedroom door and slips into the hallway. The house is embalmed in black; the woman has gone to bed.

Marge, he corrects instinctively. Marge has gone to bed.

The house is split into two levels, the stairs to his left. He's on the second floor and all he can see is the hallway, seeming to stretch on forever in the night. A shuffling noise starts from downstairs, followed by something harder, sharper, like someone clacking their teeth.

Tengas, he knows at once, and his insides run liquid cold. The Tengas have followed him.

His unbound hand searches out the walls for a weapon, anything. He has no idea where his bow is. What's left of it, anyway. He tries to remember what houses are like and thinks – hopes – there might be a cooking room of some kind downstairs. Knives. Anything. He'd settle for anything.

He finds a photo frame, ice cold against his fingertips and, moving cautiously, strips off his shirt to wrap it. He holds his breath the whole time, acutely aware of any noise above the rush in his own ears. There is nothing though, absolutely nothing, and this somehow makes the unsettled eeling in his gut even worse. He counts to five before breaking the frame under his foot. The sound is mufled by his shirt, but only barely and he freezes for a moment after, teeth biting into each other and limbs akimbo in case he's launched upon.

There's another ruffle, another snort. He thinks he's gotten away with it, but then –

" – doing in my house? What – hey!"

Silas hisses and, ripping a large shard of glass from the frame, takes the stairs three at a time. He doesn't know this Marge, doesn't owe her anything really. But Julian wouldn't leave her behind, Julian wouldn't – besides, he reasons, if they torture her there is no guarantee that she wouldn't give them all she knows. He can't take that risk.

The cooking room – kitchen, he remembers with a sudden jolt – has two entrances, spread between what seems to be a sitting room and another dark room. He presses his back against the wall between each doorway, breath trapped in his throat. The kitchen light is on and he can see the rugged outline of the Tengas. He counts two, feathered frames sheathed in armor, and wants to die.

Marge is yelling now, angry demands that these strange intruders leave her property, howling about calling the police. Silas doesn't know what the police are, but he knows they'll kill her if she continues and, on a whim, slams his foot into the nearest recliner. It topples over at once, making a thud even louder than Marge's roar. There's excited chatter, hard and clacking again, and he barely has time to duck into the second doorway as they come barrelling out of the first.

"Yo –" Marge gasps but Silas throws his hand over her mouth and shakes his head fiercely_, _before ripping her straight out of the room. He twists straight into the second unknown room, waiting until the Tengas storm back into the kitchen before daring to close the door.

"What the fuck is goin' on?" Marge is panting, eyes wild with fear.

"Tais-toi!" he hisses, ear pinned to the door again.

There's a moment of pure silence, the rustling in the kitchen sounding so far away, before Marge clears her throat. She's calmed now, face set hard and eyes clear. It comes from years of handling crisis situations, of being on your own with no-one to call for help, and Silas understands it well. "I got guns in the shed."

He shakes his head, grim. He's had more history with guns than he'd ever care to admit. "Not on them," he says, sending a surreptitious glance to the door.

"They're here for you." Marge's eyes narrow at him, but there is no blame to be found in them. She looks pensive, as if wondering what breed of trouble this strange boy has brought to her home, and his lips purse.

"Oui."

There's a sudden bang, almost resembling a gunshot, and Silas tenses automatically, backing away from the door. Sure enough, the door gives a jolting vibrate, wood quivering fiercely under the fist hammering at it. They've worked it out and they're yelling now, spattered English lost in all the shrieking.

He almost jumps when Marge's large hand lands on his shoulder. She spins him around to face her, mouth set in a line. "They haven't seen you. You can still escape."

"Kill, they will kill you –"

"No time, kid!" And she takes his narrow shoulders, shoving him twisting and squirming behind the curtain. He wrestles with her briefly, panic flaring in his throat, his chest, but she is larger than him, stronger, and he doesn't stand a chance.

She turns back around just as the door is blown in. Silas freezes, ramrod still, pressed into the cool wall. The curtain is thick; he cannot see through it at all, and he swallows tightly. There is a window behind him, large enough to slip his small body through, and he knows that that was Marge's exact intention. The thought is bizarre, this woman with no connection to him, no _reason _to protect him, willingly standing between the Tengas and him.

He can't bring himself to leave. Julian's voice pounds in his ears, pleading and so terribly missed. But he can't move, feet glued straight to the floor, his stomach a festering pit of snakes. Unbidden, his hands scrape his pockets, fingers twisting inside until he has the Power Coin clutched tightly.

"Where is he?! Where's the boy?!" One of them is roaring – he hears Marge gasp – and there's a racket going on, a full-on fucking _racket _and he knows they'll tear the whole goddamn room apart to find him.

"Phoenix," he whispers desperately, as low as he can because he knows they'll not hesitate in tearing him off to Rita. "Phoenix, s'il vous plaît, – phoenix." But nothing happens, absolutely nothing happens, nothing has _ever _happened because it's always been Julian.

There's a muffled, repeated bang, like something hitting pure concrete, pure _steel_ and his head snaps up at once, Power Coin poised mid-air. Marge has hit them. Marge has – silence. A thud sounds, softer, and he knows that Marge is dead.

He slams his elbow back into the window as hard as he can. The noise alerts them at once of course, furious squarks mixed with distorted English, screaming at him to _get back _but he spins a kick through the rest of the window and dives through. Hands grab for him, but miss by inches as he tumbles down the roof slope, arm shrieking violently. He doesn't look behind him, can't, just lets himself fall until he's hit solid ground again. It hurts, of course it hurts, but he hasn't the time. The Power Coin is pocketed, useless all over again.

"You can't run from us, Silas!" The larger warrior cries, following down the roof quickly because apparently all this time hasn't done anything for their brain cells. "There's nowhere to hide anymore!"

"Rita's going to eat you for dinner!" The other crows, hot on his comrade's heels. They smack into the ground behind, landing on their feet and barraging after him, pushing and shoving at each other to get in first. He doesn't look at them again, sprinting through the open yard. There's no grass, no anything, just dirt upon dirt and he spins about wildly, heart thudding madly with adrenalin and fear, with pain and, and –

There's a metal beast on the dirt, glinting madly in the moonlight. It's huge, big enough that he easily fit inside and he stares at a moment, pausing only slightly. There are wheels. He doesn't know what it is, doesn't know what it means, but it has wheels and he knows what _they _are. They move. For a second, a single second, he thinks he's done it, he's found an escape, but then he realizes he doesn't know how to make it work and he doesn't have _time_, doesn't – and then he's hit, slammed straight over the back of the head.

He crumples, vision swimming and he thinks he's going to throw up from the sudden onslaught of dizziness, but then he's hit again and everything, everything goes black.

* * *

**Apologies for the mangled French. Man, those Tengas.**** This has been cross-posted on Ao3.**


End file.
